


Midnight Oil

by Pas (Mek)



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: F/M, Humor, Mary Sue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 19:07:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2036589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mek/pseuds/Pas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Different galaxy, same scientists, same bad habits.  (Written for the Mary Sue fic challenge).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midnight Oil

**Author's Note:**

> First Posted to LJ on 29 April 2006.
> 
> Original Note: This was written for aspacer's Mary Sue fic challenge, and is subsequently the direct reason I am going to hell. That, and it's written in first person, present tense. So, I guess that makes me thrice damned. ;) Mucho thanks for mice1900, heuradys, and dark_cygnet for the beta'ing.
> 
> Current Note: lololol to old me thinking writing in present tense was a damning thing. Also? The "C and C++'s pointer hell" bit cracks my shit up. Oh if old me had only known that in eight/nine years I would wax poetic about pointers.

Sadly, even with a headache, the resounding thunk of my forehead impacting the lab table is the best thing that has happened to me in hours. And that would be on the order of 12 or 14 depending upon what time it is.  
  
"Still errors?" Dr. Zelenka asks. His accent is a bit thicker than normal, as it tends to be when he burns the midnight oil, but you won't catch me complaining.  
  
Well, about that anyway.  
  
"An API. I would fucking kill for an API. Fuck it, I'd take a grammar at this point and write the god damn API myself," I bitch, punctuating random words with minor thumps of my head on the table.  
  
We've been able to identify at least eight different higher level programming languages used by the Ancients, and two of them manage to make C and C++'s pointer hell look like the Elysium Fields. Unfortuantly, all of the City's weapons and defense systems seem to be written in what we've dubbed Tink: Hell Language Number 1. It's bitchy, it's powerful, and at runtime Tink programs have an insanely small footprint. Oh and the "Clap if you Believe" jokes while waiting for something to compile? Priceless.  
  
Zelenka chuckles, which seems to be just about everyone's response when I get sleep deprived, uncaffeinated, and cranky. Unless it's McKay, and then I'm hit with an order to stop my whining coupled with a slam to the quality of paper my PhD is printed on. If he's feeling truly magnanimous, he'll toss in a few insults to my family linage and/or to the collective intelligence of the good old US of A. On occasion, I've taken to flipping him off when he leaves the room. It's pointless, yet cathartic, and yeah, I know, oh so professional.  
  
Even though he's amused by my stunt, Peter warns me that at some point McKay is going to catch me, and when that happens he is so not going to help scrape my "lovely arse off the floor." I think living in certain doom for so long has made me a touch cavalier.  
  
"This morning you were offering murder for caffeine."  
  
I finally remove my head from the table and raise my left arm so that it's parallel to the ground, palm down. The tremble of my hand isn't too bad, but it is most definitely noticeable. Zelenka, Radek, or whatever the hell we are supposed to be calling our superiors these days, holds out his arm, mimicking me, and he and I watch as his hand shakes a touch more than mine.  
  
"I win, yes?" he grins, expression and tone far too exuberant, but not even coming close to covering up the fact that he looks as exhausted as I feel. Dr. Zelenka, however, has the added +2 to disheveled with his "I just got laid, but didn't" hair.  
  
Better make that a +6.  
  
"Congrats. You win this round of 'my DTs suck worse than yours,'" I quip before resting my forehead back on the table. My fingers had started to go squishy about two hours ago and I stopped consciously focusing on what I was doing about an hour and a half after that. Really, I should go to bed, but that would mean moving. And who knows, if I sit here long enough I might get my 30th wind...  
  
"If you drool on table, I shall have to place a reprimand in your file."  
  
I snort and sit up, tilting my head to either side, wishing the muscles in my neck were relaxed enough to let my spine pop. "Defacement of government property?"  
  
He nods gravely, however, his expression is a mockery of sincerity. "Exactly."  
  
I smirk, and with a few keystrokes I'm logged out of my station, and it's an effort not to ask exactly *which* goverment. "Well in that case," I say as I stand, "for the sake of my career, your deity of choosing, and our storage space, I'm out of here."  
  
"Sleep well," Radek says and means it, even though he's already focused back on whatever project's got him up.  
  
"You too, Radek," I return, just as sincere in one of those odd moments where I feel comfortable using his first name. Honestly, my guess is that his presence in the lab has more to do with McKay's team being late with their check-in than some pressing issue. He worries. We all do. Hell, the person who doesn't is bloody insane.  
  
As I leave the lab I glance at my watch before interlacing my fingers, and stretching. Fuck it all, my back is as tight as my neck and doesn't pop either. Pausing at an intersection of corridors, I try to remember Peter's schedule, knowing full well that he is probably awake regardless. The question is if he would be up to getting the kinks out of my neck and back, because really in the state I'm in sleep will be a long time coming, if at all.  
  
Turning over my wrist, I check my watch again, realizing that although I'd just looked at it, the time didn't stick.  
  
Only 3 AM?  
  
I turn left rather than right and head for the control tower fully intent on dragging a workaholic Brit to bed. Taking the next left, I'm greeted with a spectacular view of the city. I keep walking, but the image sticks with me. I love Atlantis late at night. She's eerie and beautiful and a million other clichés that don't do her justice and should be relegated to the annals of high school poetry classes.  
  
Suddenly I refocus on my surroundings and realize that I've been practically sleepwalking, because really, it takes more than a couple dozen steps to get from the labs to the Gateroom. Stackhouse is coming out as I go in, and he looks like hell.  
  
"Evenin'," he says, and then stops and pulls a face. "It's morning isn't it?" The poor boy's been on the graveyard Gate-sitting shift for the last week and by nature he's a first shifter.  
  
"Yeup." I nod and smile in sympathy; I once spent a summer working first shift and it about killed me, so I definitely feel for him. Sparing him from the customary idle chit-chat that I’m not sure I'm capable of with so few brain cells working, I jump right into the Spanish Inquisition. "Grodin up in command?"  
  
He nods and then smirks. "Yeah, he doesn't look too happy, though. You here to retrieve him?"  
  
This is me, so not surprised. "Yeah, that's the goal. Thanks for the heads up," I say and head for the main stairwell.  
  
"Anytime," Stacks calls after me and continues his rounds.  
  
I take the stairs in ones, not twos like some folks do. Really, if I had that kind of energy, I'd be doing so many more constructive things with it, for a certain definition of constructive. In theory, Peter should have seen me coming up the stairs, but I'd be willing to put good money on it that he didn't notice. His hands are braced on either side of the console he's sitting in front of and he's glaring at his laptop, jaw set, and brow furrowed. I move to stand behind him and run my hands over his shoulders and down his chest until my arms are fully extended. He doesn't jump, but rather relaxes a bit, which means I'd have lost that good money. "How goes?"  
  
"Dreadfully. You?" he asks as he leans back into me, resting his head on my stomach, and closes his eyes.  
  
Taking in the dark circles around his eyes that I know match mine, I wonder if a secret requisite to be selected for the expedition was 'will work one's self to death'. "Tink's still being a little bitch. I heard you found two more hooks today."  
  
Peter snorts, the sound disgusted and frustrated, as he sits up, fingers back at his laptop's keyboard. He cycles though several windows and stops at one of the half dozen terminals he's got open. "For whatever good they'll do us."  
  
I nod and read the screen. It's output from part of the test suite we use for our home grown operating system called EarthOS, and of course refered to as EOS. EOS' development started shortly after the Ancient's outpost was discovered in Antarctica and when it became readily apparent that the Ancients had a fetish for modularization and object oriented programming. Their systems, both hardware and software, are rife with points to hook our own tech into. Really, it's creepy how easily some of our equipment interfaces with the Ancients' and makes one wonder about genetic memory and what goodies, in addition to the ATA gene, the Ancients introduced into our gene pool.  
  
A thought occurs to me. "What version of the suite are you using? Alex did an update around 2300."  
  
Peter shakes his head. "I just checked this out about twenty minutes ago."  
  
"Ah."  
  
He pages down and I read some more. Actually I stare some more, and let my brain do the parse and troubleshoot thing without me.  
  
Contrary to popular belief EOS doesn't run the city, it just interacts with Atlatnis' native OS, nick named, you guessed it AOS. Amusingly enough, the non-tech staff can't keep it straight and just refer to EOS as 'Atlantis'OS'. After the first two months we gave up trying to correct them. Saying "Atlantis' OS crashed!" is right up there with "The internet is down!" back on Earth.  
  
"See anything glaringly obvious?" Peter's voice is riding that bitter yet hopeful edge I think everyone in the sciences and engineering department learned during our undergrad years.  
  
"Nada."  
  
"Damn," he mutters, genuinely disappointed.  
  
I smile, lean over, and rest my forehead on the top of his head, exhaustion finally catching up with me. "Actually I lied. It clearly says, 'Peter Grodin get thine arse to bed and take your girl with you.'" No sooner am I done speaking than the Gate dials up from off-world and blossoms to life. Both Peter and I are in motion, me to get out of the way, and Peter to do the gate tech thing.  
  
Sensing movement behind me, I turn just in time to watch Serj break a land speed record as he bolts from one of the back consoles to stand behind Peter. We all watch the IDC laptop as Peter's hand hovers over the shield control and part of me strongly debates hitting the deck.  
  
"Incoming audio transmission," Serj announces, the initial hiss and crackle of the transmission cutting in halfway though his sentence.  
  
"Atlantis, this is Sheppard. Come in." Thankfully, his voice is at ease, and I relax a touch.  
  
"We hear you John, go ahead." Shit. So much for relaxed, I nearly jump out of my skin at Dr. Weir's voice. You know I'm exhausted when I lose track of my surroundings and let someone get within five feet of me without noticing their presence.  
  
"Elizabeth. A bit late isn't it?"  
  
"I was just going to say the same," she retorts, combining amusement with a chastising edge, while her expression screams 'not a happy camper'.  
  
"Yeah, sorry about that. The Calousians believe in a twenty course feast and would have been deeply offended if we walked out at number sixteen."  
  
Peter moves away from the IDC laptop and returns to his normal console, letting Serj, who is actually on shift, do his job. I tune out Dr. Weir and Sheppard's banter and watch Peter shut down his laptop, grateful that he isn't going to give me the "I'll be to bed in just a little bit" line that I'm just as guilty of saying far too frequently.  
  
My attention snaps back to the COM conversation when McKay's voice, distant yet hyper pipes up with, "Tell her about the chocolate. Don't forget the chocolate."  
  
"I was just getting to that, Rodney. Elizabeth," a pause for what has got to be dramatic effect, "we have found chocolate in the Pegasus galaxy."  
  
Oh, headdesking so just dropped to the second best thing of my day, and from Peter's expression, he's just as thrilled as I am as he comes to stand in front of me.  
  
Weir and Sheppard's conversation progresses though trade agreements, the next check-in time, and finally the requisite "over and out" before the puddle winks out and the Gate powers down.  
  
"Chocolate," Peter says, like he's trying out the word, just to make sure he heard correctly.  
  
"Looks like it," Dr. Weir replies and we all stand there for a moment grinning like idiots, before she turns to me, "Did you just come from the labs? Was Dr. Zelenka still there?"  
  
"Yeah, he threatened my career, so I figured it'd be best if I left," I say straight-faced.  
  
"Did he now?" she's amused rather than alarmed, familiar with my at times dry humour.  
  
"Something about drool on lab tables and reprimands," I reply, feigning confusion.  
  
"Faceplant did you?" Peter asks, far too amused.  
  
"Was contemplating it," I admit.  
  
"I see," she says doing her best to look thoughtful and authoritative. "Well in that case, I suggest you get her to bed, Peter, and make sure she stays there." That's about as close as Dr. Weir ever gets to ordering any of us to bed, and even with my less than stellar ability to read social cues, I catch that one.  
  
"Funny, that's what test suite said..." Peter quips, tone sardonic.  
  
"Conspiracy, I tell you," I say as I shake my head. "Where are the Lone Gunmen when you need 'em?"  
  
He snorts and places a hand on the small of my back, and gives me a gentle nudge towards the stairs.  
  
"Good night, you two," Dr. Weir wishes us, and we respond in unison with "You too," and wince as we walk down the stairs and head for the nearest transport, which is located under command. As we enter it, Peter presses the map of Atlantis and I turn to face the threshold we just crossed. In the scant moments it takes for the doors to close and us to transport, Peter runs his thumbs down the back of my neck with just a hint of pressure. He chuckles at the truly undignified noise I make as my head lolls forward and the doors open.  
  
"What do you say we loosen you up a bit and then pass out?"  
  
"I do declare, you say the sweetest things," I respond with my worst southern accent as I exit the lift.  
  
"It's all part of my irresistible charm," he assures me.  
  
"Or something," I reply as we exchange sideways glances and grins before settling into a comfortable silence for the rest of the walk, just two ordinary people in a perfectly abnormal world.


End file.
